


on which our survival depends

by indigostohelit



Category: 19th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF, Literary RPF
Genre: Drowning, Hy Brasil, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Switzerland, The Year Without A Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-09-22 23:04:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9629117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigostohelit/pseuds/indigostohelit
Summary: Percy says, "I think you'd kill me, if you could."He watches Byron's face crumple into a sneer, the curve of his mouth, the fullness of his lip. "Who on Earth says I can't?"





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redpaint](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redpaint/gifts).



> Written for the [Fight Back Fic Auction.](https://fightbackfic.tumblr.com/) You too can get fanfiction in exchange for that ACLU donation you were going to make anyway! (Thank you, redpaint!) Check out the auction at the link, and commission something from meeeeee. (Or another author. But mostly me.)

"They talk," says Byron, "in old tales, of the Summer Country."

"Summer never began," says Percy.

Byron says, "Then summer won't end."

 

The lake is the color of ash, and the wind hasn't stirred for days. Percy thinks the air is thinner up here, clearer; the sun seems closer, faint as it is. Icarus is nearer.

"So let me read it," says Byron, behind him, and Percy startles, turns his head.

"I won't," he says. "It's not done."

"So let me read it," Byron says again, grinning. He's in one of his bright moods today, and what's more, in a velvet dressing gown as yellow as butter - _marigolds_ , Percy thinks, _daffodils, finches, lions - no, summer grass, summer grass and sunshine - red wine? entwine?_

 _Entwine_ may be too apt; Byron's leaning against the doorframe leading into the house, all long lines and dark eyes. Percy's never met such a man for knowing exactly what he looks like, exactly what sort of picture Percy's eyes paint of him; Byron's collar is open at the throat, as usual, and Percy can see the edge of a red mark on it, can feel his own face growing warm.

"It's not _done_ ," he repeats, sharp, and avoids the hot pressure of Byron's gaze. "Go ask Mary - she'll talk to you. Ask Polly Dolly, he'll be happy to tell you about whatever on Earth he's writing."

Byron's nose wrinkles in a very unattractive scowl, and Percy has to look away to the water, smile to himself; he's strangely proud of these moments of ugliness, of being able to draw them out. He'd never say so - certainly would never write it down, would never put it into poetry, can't imagine how - but nevertheless: he's never known anyone as beautiful as Byron, anyone as effortlessly opaque in his beauty, as utterly and unbreachably committed to the work of being himself.

"He will, more's the pity," Byron drawls - whines, really, and Percy lets himself turn back, lets himself laugh in Byron's face.

"So be patient," he says. "Do some writing of your own."

"I've written pages and _pages_ today, I wrote for _hours_ ," says Byron - he really must be in one of his bright moods, then, bright and fast and full of fire. "Pages," and he saunters towards Percy, his hand raking through his hair, his eyes dancing with wickedness. "I'm not interested in being patient."

"Oh, aren't you," says Percy, and lets himself settle against the railing of the balcony, spread his arms. "Shall I teach you?"

 

When the rains come, Percy dreams of the sea.

The maps write that Britain is an island; so it is, and so it may be, and so it may have been, for time out of mind. Nevertheless when Percy thinks of it - Oxford, Eton, Keswick and Englefield Green - he thinks not of the shore, but of the hills; not of the ocean, endless and a thousand fathoms empty and blurring into the sky, but of trees and stones, of grass and earth, of a horizon bounded by hills. The end of the wild; the end of the wold.

The house, on the edge of the lake, in the center of the storms, feels like Atlantis - a drowned city, a sunken ship, soaring weightless above the pale sand where the sea grows too heavy for it. Percy listens to the drumming on the roof, closes his eyes. Bites down on the inside of his cheek, harder, until his mouth floods warm and hot.

 

"Do you ever miss it," says Percy, once, when the wind is turning the lake into light.

Byron snorts. "What, England? The English? The gentry, London, High Society? What ought I to miss?"

"Anyone," says Percy, defensive. "Anything. Your family."

Byron looks at him. "My wife, Shelley?"

"I didn't mean," says Percy.

"No," says Byron. "I don't. Do you miss yours?"

It's not often that Percy hates him. He hates him now, and even as he hates him, lets his eyes rest on his open collar, on his pale skin, on those wide, dark eyes that half of London would die for - that Percy would die for.

"So what," he says, "you won't go home?"

Byron laughs. To be fair, Percy would die for almost anything.

"And what if it doesn't help?" says Percy, and wants, suddenly, to be cruel. "What if England was the only place for us? What if it doesn't get any better? If you never write another poem - if you never do read my story? What if we die tomorrow? What if this is all we have?"

"Then this is all we have," says Byron. The sun's behind him, now, clear and brilliant for the first time this year; his shadow is long and thin on the balcony, licking at Percy's boots. "Then this is all we get. Better to be Milton in Hell than any man in Heaven." Percy can't see his face, quite, only the outline of his lips, the light on the whites of his eyes.

"So we die young," he says, and smiles. "So I die young. You expected something else?"

And Percy can't answer; can't say, _I expected nothing else_ , can't say, _I expected nothing less_ , can't say, _it's not fair, it's not right'_  can't say, _so_ _I'm a hypocrite, I'm a liar, but it's only all right when I do it. It's only all right when I hurt. It's only all right when I die._

 

There's an island - so Percy's heard - at the place where the sky meets the sea. Where the sun falls over the horizon; where the earth becomes water, where the waking world becomes dreams. The country where the shadows are long, and the water is still, and night comes slowly, and sunlight stays. The country where nothing fades. The country from whose bourn no traveler returns. The country from whose bourn no traveler is forced to return.

Percy pictures it, when he closes his eyes. Weightlessness, and coral-bones, and pearls that were his eyes; and in his mouth, salt.


End file.
